Chapter 39

Dr Jamie Glendenning was in his office eating his long-delayed lunch of an egg mayo sandwich and a packet of ready salted crisps. He looked up when he heard a tap on his door.

‘Detective Inspector Braithwaite, I expected you here at nine o'clock.'

‘Yes. Sorry. I?—'

‘You ask me to make Dominic Griffiths a priority, put him to the head of the very long queue, and then don't bother to turn up? You certainly know how to make a man feel worthless.'

‘I gave you an expensive bottle of whisky at Christmas.'

‘Which my wife thoroughly enjoyed,' he said, looking at Terry over the top of his glasses. ‘Anyway, I'm not one to hold grudges. Pull up a chair, and I'll give you all the gory details you missed out on.'

‘The highlights will do.'

‘Look at the name on the door. Does it say Gary Lineker? I do not give highlights, Detective Inspector.'

‘You really hate your routine messed around with, don't you?'

‘I do. Especially when today was supposed to be my day off. I was called out on Christmas Day to a suspicious death in Cramlington and on Boxing Day to Ogle. I've had exactly six hours with my family this festive season.'

‘Ah.'

‘Indeed. Now, your chap Dominic Griffiths,' he began, selecting the file on his laptop and opening it. ‘He certainly made my start to the year an interesting one. Every single one of his ribs was broken.'

‘You're joking?'

‘I'm aware of the police's penchant for gallows humour at a crime scene, but it does not enter my autopsy suite. I never joke,' he said flatly, his face emotionless.

‘Sorry. Go on.'

‘His nose was broken, as were several of his teeth, a number of which we found in his stomach. His last meal, by the way, was a chip sandwich. His body was covered in contusions, abrasions, and he was hit around the trunk of his body with something long, narrow and cylindrical.'

‘Like a pipe?'

‘More like a baseball bat, I'd say. His liver, by the way, was a couple of punches short of exploding. It was almost treble the size it should have been. He also suffered a fractured skull and a subdural haematoma. To you that's?—'

‘Bleeding on the brain,' Terry interrupted.

‘You're learning! Well done.'

‘So, what actually killed him?

‘Unsurprisingly, it was one of the stab wounds. He was stabbed four times in the chest. A direct hit to the heart. It wouldn't have taken long for him to die. He was already badly beaten by then. I would've thought it was a blessing for his body.'

‘If he hadn't been stabbed, would he have survived?'

‘Highly unlikely.'

‘Then why stab him after beating him to a pulp?'

‘Fortunately, that's a question I don't have to answer.'

‘Could a woman have done this?'

‘Of course she could have. A few whacks with a baseball bat to incapacitate him, then she could have her fun. So to speak. Why, do you have a suspect in mind?'

‘I'm afraid to say I do.'

‘Isn't that usually a cause for celebration, rather than disappointment?'

‘Usually. However, I get the feeling the person who has done this is incredibly clever and will have covered every single one of her tracks.'

‘Then I wish you the best of British luck, inspector.'

Anthony Griffiths opened the door to find Rita and Dawn on his doorstep. Rita was holding a bunch of flowers, and both women had grim expressions on their faces.

‘I'm sorry I didn't come around yesterday, Anthony. I know you wanted to celebrate Carole's birthday, but after?—'

‘You don't have to apologise. I understand. Come on in.' He held the door open wider for them to enter, and closed it firmly behind them. He shivered from the cold.

‘I brought you some flowers from the shop.' Rita handed him the bunch. ‘I was going to bring them yesterday for the birthday, but, well…' She faltered.

‘They're lovely. Thank you. Would you both like a drink?'

‘Shall I make it?' Dawn asked.

‘If you would. You know where everything is.'

Dawn took the flowers from him and went into the kitchen. Anthony returned to his usual armchair, though it seemed to cause him pain to sit. Rita perched precariously on the edge of the sofa.

‘Are you all right?' she asked. He looked at her. ‘Sorry, silly question. Have you taken your medication today?'

He nodded. ‘It doesn't seem to be working anymore. I've been on to the doctor, and he's increased the dose. Hopefully, it'll kick in soon. So then, what about this business with Dominic?' he asked, changing the subject.

‘Yes. I'm very sorry about it,' Rita said. She leaned forward and placed her hand on top of his. ‘It's just so horrible.' Her voice was full of emotion, but there were no tears in her eyes.

‘Thank you, Rita. But I suppose he got what was coming to him. There was a lot of ill feeling about him being released from prison.'

‘I know, but for someone to have killed him. Well, it's disgusting. I mean, what kind of a country are we living in where people think they can take the law into their own hands?'

Anthony winced in pain and looked down. He played with his fingers but didn't say anything.

‘Have the police been in touch? Do they know who's done it yet?' Rita asked.

‘They came by yesterday. I don't think they have any idea who's responsible, though.'

‘Listen, Anthony, if you need anything, you only have to ask,' she said, with a smile.

‘Thank you, Rita. That's very kind of you.'

The phone started to ring, but Anthony didn't move.

‘Would you like me to get it for you?'

‘No. It'll be someone from the papers. They've been ringing all day. I should unplug it really.'

Rita took a deep breath. ‘Anthony, would you like to come and stay at mine for a few days? There's plenty of room.'

‘No. I couldn't impose like that. I just want to be on my own.'

Dawn came into the room carrying a tray with three mugs on it and a large Victoria sponge cake in the middle. Despite Anthony not being in the mood to make the cake after the police had left, that morning he'd thought it would be a good activity to take his mind off things. After all, he'd bought the ingredients and hated things going to waste.

‘I thought we'd cut into this. It looks lovely, doesn't it, Mum?'

‘It looks better than any I could make. Dawn, tell him about the cake I made for your sixteenth.'

‘Oh my God. She made this cake that was supposed to be three layers, but she used the wrong flour. She didn't notice and still iced it. It looked like a big biscuit rather than a cake.'

Anthony gave a weak smile.

‘You still ate it, though,' Rita said.

‘I never say no to cake.'

Dawn cut into the cake Anthony had made and handed out three slices. Hers was the smallest. Her new diet allowed her the odd treat, but she didn't want the taste of those delicious calories to undo all the work she'd done in the past six months to remove the weight. The phone started to ring again, and they all ignored it.

Anthony waited until the ringing stopped before he spoke. ‘How are you doing, Dawn?'

‘I'm okay. I don't know… I can't seem to settle.'

‘You're in shock,' Rita said, munching on the cake.

‘I think we all are,' Anthony said. He was using his fork to turn his slice of cake into crumbs. He hadn't eaten any. ‘To be perfectly honest, I wanted him to die in prison. I always imagined getting a phone call or a letter from someone telling me he'd been beaten up or he'd committed suicide. I didn't want him being released and returning to Newcastle. I knew something like this would happen.'

‘You couldn't have known, Anthony,' Rita said.

‘He was my son,' he said, with a broken voice. His eyes filled with tears. ‘He was my…' He couldn't finish. His words were lost to his emotion.

Dawn, the nearest, stood up and perched on the edge of the armchair. She placed an arm around his shoulders and held him to her.

‘It's all right, Grandad. It's all right to be upset.'

She looked at her mother, who was looking down at her cake, her bottom lip wobbling slightly as she struggled to contain her tears. Dawn knew her mother. She was a very emotional person and always cried when she saw other people crying. She cried whenever anyone died in a TV soap or a child hugged his grandfather in an advert for life insurance.

‘I just…' Anthony tried again but still couldn't speak. He waited a moment then wiped his eyes on his sleeves. ‘I just keep thinking about Carole. If someone had done this twenty years ago, she might still be alive now. That's why I'm upset. I miss her so much.' He fell into Dawn's arms again, and she held him tighter.

Anthony was crying for his dead wife. Rita was crying just because Anthony was crying. Dawn's eyes were dry. Dominic had been dead for little more than twenty-four hours, and nobody was crying for him.